Your Ex Lover is Dead
by new-slang
Summary: In which everyone's in AA, Draco gets evicted, sleeps with people, and gets beat up on a daily basis by snarky!Pansy. Then he starts living with Hermione and pisses her off. Then everything gets worse. Then everything gets good again.


Your Ex-Lover is Dead

Warnings: language, sexual content, everybody in AA, no britishisms.

A/N: Inspired by **bk11's **_Happy Hour_. I hope she doesn't mind. I'm awful scurrrred of her. Also dedicated to Blue's friend **Francisco**. Because he thinks Draco's an ass. And so do I. But asses need love, too.

Pairing: Heraco. Dramione. Whatev.

Summary: In which everyone's in AA, Draco gets evicted, sleeps with people, and gets beat up on a daily basis by snarky!Pansy. Then he starts living with Hermione and pisses her off. Then everything gets worse. Then everything gets good again.

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. Not even the title, because it's a song by Stars.

**Your Ex-Lover is Dead  
Part One**

"_If I were a rock,_  
_I'd know no pain."_  
-Simon and Garfunkel.

Hermione downed another big gulp before she set the glass back on the table. The lights that outlined DeFleur Mirth's wide selection of top-notch liquor and alcoholic beverages in front of her became hazy, and then all of a sudden, so bright that it blinded her. She blinked twice, each time squeezing her eyelids tightly shut for more than a moment. She swallowed hard, and she could feel the thick sweetness that stuck to the inside of her throat. It burned a little.

She wasn't a big drinker. Harry – who was in AA – always told her that drinking would never solve anyone's problems. It was just temporary sedative, or anesthesia that caused a hell of a headache in the morning and the nauseating discovery of some underage girl stark naked in your bed. But, the thing was, she was actually _scared_ what would happen if she were sober tonight. She seldom ever drank, but tonight – tonight she was going to drink as heartily as the Irish in all of her self-pity and self-loathing. Because – hell, in the under-wiring of tonight's current reality, she silently and _bitterly_ (so fucking bitterly) wondered what would've happened if she hadn't finished early and gone to his place for a surprise visit. She should have known he was a total asshole. Nobody else would've said they loved surprises in falsetto.

But then she also wondered if not knowing was actually better than knowing. It was a subjective sort of question, like questions about God and Da Vinci and… Michael Jackson.

She finished her fourth glass like a champion and asked for another.

"Thanks, Wynnie," she said, her voice sounding distant and detached from her own ears, though hoarse and ragged. It was flimsy and weak, and obedient to a force stronger. And she hated it.

She took a bigger swig, making a face as she tried her best to swallow it. It was almost like liquefied peppers and jalapenos with sugar and syrup blended together, this drink. It burned like somebody's ass on a grill then it was sweet like melted cotton candy.

She could feel staring eyes penetrating into her back like bullets from a pistol. She could hear their thoughts, asking, wondering, laughing, teasing…

'_Look at Hermione Granger. Drinking all alone at the bar. Such a pity.' _

Well, _fuck _you.

She dropped her head, her brown locks greeting the surface of the counter. Her fingers tightened around the cold glass.

This was just so _dumb_. Drinking her way to a happy coma because her asshole ex-fiancé cheated on her and today was the _fucking_ day she was supposed to be _married_. You'd think she'd have something else more productive and better and less self-destructive to do. After all, she was famous. She was wealthy. She had broken through all the barriers that were stereotypes and doubts of Muggleborns and witches never being able to make it big in the business world. She had proved them wrong. She had never been happier.

He had actually made her ashamed of being who she was. She had even considered never using magic again, never visiting the wizarding world, cutting off her ties with her best mates. What an _asshole_. And _she_ was an asshole, too. Because she actually let him do that to her – brainwash her with all of this psychological mind shit – and staggered her in what used to be such a _great_ life.

Hermione then felt something weird, and a bizarre buzzing in her ear, as she put down her glass and looked to her left. Her vision was a little hazy for a minute, as she looked at who it was that seemed to be watching her closely. Even with about a load of voluntary intoxication inside her system, the man observing her was far too much a part of her past misery and adolescence for her to ever forget.

His bright pale-blond hair was one thing that made him impossible to overlook. Then it was his eyes. They were just as she remembered. Icy and exactly bastard-like. Except, this time, his just-as-infamous scowl seemed to be out of place. He was peering at her, like he was trying to figure something out, or like he needed glasses.

It was only after her eyes rested on him that his expression faded. He then began to smirk, and Hermione immediately looked away.

"_Shit_," she whispered to herself, as she picked up her glass for another drink. She could see him get up out of his seat from the corner of her eye. He was coming towards her.

The thought of leaving the pub instantly crossed her mind, but it only singed her temper. She told herself firmly she wasn't going to leave. She was tired of letting superior males walk all over her and force her out of her solace. She was going to sit here and bear his presence and rude remarks, no matter how intolerable or irritating. Immediately, she grew roots. He wasn't going to ruin this for her. She was drinking her sorrows away, damn it.

He slid into the seat next to her, and she could have sworn she felt a chill sweep into the area they occupied. She clenched her jaw and swallowed, her throat burning and her mouth slippery and sweet.

"Granger," he drawled, and she only looked ahead as if he wasn't there. "Surprising to see you here."

"Surprising you're wasting your precious time talking to me," she responded, in a cold but calm voice.

"Undeniably true," he said. "But after the past events, I think I can say with some confidence that you're somewhat worthy of my precious time. After all, you're the most worshipped author in the wizarding world, not to mention also the most hated. I have to say; I loved 'How to Be A Death Eater.' You captured it, Granger, oh _yes_ you bloody did. But I suppose it doesn't help that the Death Eaters you exposed are out thirsting to have your blood on their hands."

"Incorrect, Malfoy. They're all in Azkaban. Each and every one of them."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you certain, Granger? You sound awfully haughty for your own good. I think it's only fair to warn you that you shouldn't get too ahead of yourself."

It was only then that Hermione turned to look at him. It was not a glare but an ignorant, expressionless look.

"Amusing, Malfoy. Really."

Malfoy smirked, but then cast away his eyes for a minute to order a glass of what she was having. Some high-class, really expensive, pretentious whiskey, or something. She didn't know. Her friend worked here and knew she was having a shit time so she told her that it was on the house.

"This is the first time I've seen you here," he told her. "What's the special occasion? A relationship that crashed and burned? A dead relative? Or, better yet, a dead Potter?"

Hermione snorted. He thought he was _so funny_. Somebody should just punch him in the face and show him exactly how funny he was.

"I don't know where you come in and start asking me these questions," she said, looking ahead again, watching her solemn, sorry-ass reflection on the mirror behind the bottles. "But you need to go away before I break this glass on your face and you wake up needing plastic surgery."

In the mirror, she saw Malfoy intently looking at her, his whiskey glass sitting on the counter in front of him. He was taller than she was, though this was not much of a surprise since he had always been, even back at Hogwarts. His hair was the same as it had been in third year and the remainder of their years after that—free of gel and hair products. His hair was almost as bright as the light bulbs staring back at her, because of her inebriated eyes, and she blinked hard, rubbing them.

"There's no need for hostility here, Granger," he drawled, taking a sip. "Everyone in this pub is terribly wealthy, problematic and totally fucked up." He watched her steadily. "I'm only curious. It isn't as if I'm going to go write a book about it. That's entirely up to you."

"My problems aren't nearly as fancy as yours, or as complex, dipshit," she said, raising her glass to take another drink. "I'd rather be in a seedy, foggy, dim Muggle pub if I could. That's where my problems would be in if they were, in fact, people. I'm only here because I'm a friend of the owner and she offered me free drinks tonight. And how could I turn down free alcohol?"

"Impressive," he said. "Already have connections. Not bad, Granger. Not bad at all. But really, I'd fancy hearing your sob story."

Hermione scoffed. "I'm not willing to share," she informed him coldly. "So you might as well sod off."

"Nonsense," insisted. "You're _dying_ to share your pain and misery, and _I_ know it, as well as _you_ do. Why not tell it to a childhood enemy who's gone through ten times worse? Come on, Granger."

Hermione looked at him, irritated. She glared at him.

"Fuck off, Malfoy. I said it once, and I'll say it again and again until you get it through that thick head of yours that you're not wanted." Though her words were sharp and cruel, there was a lump that started to form in her throat as she said them. Her throat was dry and hot, and her mouth tasted like whiskey and salt. It felt as if a pair of strong hands had her neck in a vice-grip and was trying to choke her.

Malfoy did not scowl at her, or threaten her. His voice was calm and even. His drawl was the same. Nothing changed.

"Trying to drink away your problems won't work, Granger."

"I've seen that ad. It was stupid."

"Have you seen this one? Get drunk, walk home, and get raped."

"Oh, that one gave me chills, I won't even lie."

"Don't be stupid, Granger."

Hermione scoffed.

"Maybe I'm _tired_ of being smart," she told him, without even thinking. It all just slipped out of her mouth, just as easily as the whiskey had slipped in. Now she'd gone off on this pathetically apparent tangent – some pity call for some wealthy cad to pat her back and tell him he'll be there for her. Well, _fuck_ him. It's his own fault she was telling him all of this now. He was the one who was being so annoying.

"Maybe I'm _tired_ of being realistic. Maybe being all that _hurts_. And, this," she said, banging her glass on the counter, "makes everything better. Maybe even just a little. That's all I need. Just one night to forget. _This_ night to forget. So just bloody _leave_ me the hell _alone_!"

And then her throat felt strangled and pinched in. Her eyes got blurry and she tried to wipe away the burning with the back of her hand.

So pathetic. She was crying. Great. He'd made her fucking cry.

Draco shook his head. "I take it you've never been drunk before?" he asked her. There was silence between them, taking a moment to respond, as she heard the indistinct whispers of curious and alarmed strangers behind her. She sighed, feeling her head spin for a second, running her thumb down the side of her empty glass, feeling a little humiliated for yelling.

"I didn't drink before," she said, calmly, trying to swallow down the aftertaste of her outburst. "I don't usually. But tonight's important."

"And why is that?"

She looked at him. He was watching her, and the little fucker seemed genuinely interested in hearing the disaster that wrecked Hermione Granger, the infamous Bookworm-turned-Fabulous-Dark-Writer that had single-handedly managed to woo the wizarding world with her intelligent words and brutal honesty about the Dark Lord's followers and murderers. He was looking at her and he could clearly see how thoroughly screwed up she was, with her tangled, messy hair and her pink nose and her face wet from the fact that she'd just smeared her tears away – he could see that. Part of her just wanted to push him away and ask him who he thought he was to be asking such personal questions about her life – after he'd been such a _bastard_ to her. What was he going to do with it? Use it to embarrass her, or make himself feel better? And it was insulting, it _was_. Because why the hell would _he_ want to know? So he could use it to make a name of himself again?

But before she could even think about telling him, the truth somehow slid from her lips without her consent. It wasn't even a slither of bleak, unspecific facts. It was the truth. The whole, heartbreaking truth.

There was something about him. His eyes, the way he looked at her like he was going to console her more than the whiskey and alcohol ever could, which was a laugh – really, a _laugh_ – but something she couldn't necessarily bring herself to laugh about. It was just something that pierced a wound on the side of her purple, bruised heart that made everything gush out. Never mind that he had once lived to make her life miserable, or of the wonder lingering in her mind that was if he still was. Never mind that he was known to be a heartless bastard who looked down on everyone who wasn't like him. Never mind that he was most likely going to use it against her.

She had to tell somebody, and he was _here_, _right now_, when she felt like she was going to go damn crazy. It wasn't about trust, or worthiness. It was about feeling desolate, miserable, heartbroken and hopeless. It was about feeling trapped and angry as hell.

"Today was the day I was going to be married," she told him, her voice quiet and serious. She stared at her glass because this wasn't a pity call – not for her. She didn't want to let him know exactly how painful it was for her. To get your heart all fucked up wasn't so hot a feeling.

"Three months ago, I was engaged to a Muggle barrister named Nickolas Lock. A month before our wedding, I made the… mistake, of getting off work early and going to his flat for a surprise visit. I walked in, and I found him fucking another woman. Can you _believe_ that?" she said, and she felt like she was going to start blubbering all over again, because this was the kind of shit that she didn't like talking about. She didn't talk about it before, actually, which was probably why it _hurt_ so damn much. "If you're going to sleep with a broad, don't give me your effing _key_! And what's worse? The girl was our wedding planner! Our _fucking_ wedding planner!"

Then there was silence, and everything was a little tense. There was bitterness on her face, something that she couldn't possibly hide no matter how hard she tried. She took another swig, feeling the spicy liquid slide down her throat and slip all the way down to the hollow of her stomach, and she felt her abdomen clench.

"Well, isn't that a bitch," he told her, even though he didn't even look all that sympathetic.

Asshole.

"I told you," she said, finally turning to him. "Nothing special. Just your normal, pathetic, relationship tragedy."

Unsurprisingly, he mustered up what seemed to be half of a smirk. Stupid Draco Malfoy could always smirk at anything life chucked his way. He could probably be getting the shit beat out of, or castrated, and he'd still be smirking.

"Hardly," he said. "Believe me, Granger. I know what tragedies and relationship fuck-ups are all about. I'm the poster boy, haven't you heard?"

Hermione managed to laugh, despite the painful emotional traffic that her recollecting had brought. Because it was true. He was probably even more fucked up than her.

"So," she said, still a bit surprised from her sudden openness to Draco Malfoy. The whiskey kind of deafened the sharpness of her thoughts and senses, however, so she did not mind as much as she usually would. "Since we seem to be having a Confession booth here, what's your tragedy? Your relationship crash-and-burn?" Because she reckoned it would be kind of fun hearing a sad part of his life that would make her feel better about hers. Wasn't that how life worked, though? You're there feeling sorry for yourself, then you meet someone who's even worse off than you, then it puts things into perspective.

Whatever. You know. That sort of shit.

"Not much different, except one crucially important detail," he informed her nonchalantly, like it ceased to matter the moment he found out about it. "I had a fiancé, I was cheated on, frighteningly similar to yourself. I'm afraid the verbal drabble would just bore you to a very torturous death." He ordered another whiskey.

"And that crucial detail?"

"Oh, yes, that. Well, it's quite disgusting as well. And rather pitiful."

"It's only fair if you share."

"Fine, if you insist. But don't blame me if you're scarred forever, although, you most certainly can't be as scarred as me."

Hermione looked at him expectedly, as he took a long sip. She was amazed, that as she looked at him, because it seemed as if he hadn't aged at all. Sure, his face was still a bit rigid, and at some angles he looked frighteningly like his psychotic old man, but not when you looked at him up close. It was like those paintings made up of dots. It looked like an image far away, but when you came closer it was just this whole chaotic mess. And that was how she felt, looking at him. Like he was one of those pretentious paintings.

"It was my father."

Hermione sent him a puzzled look. "What?" she asked him, but she wasn't surprised. It seemed like _everything_ was about his father.

"It was my father," he explained, "that my fiancé cheated on me with."

Finally understanding, Hermione made a face. A mental image that she never wanted to see in her life flashed in her mind, and she thought those glasses of whiskey would be making its exit through her mouth as she attempted to prevent herself from gagging.

"Your _father_?" she said, with tremendous disgust.

"One and only," Draco said.

"Damn," said Hermione, her brows raised high on her forehead. "So what'd you do?"

"Well, hell, Granger. I didn't marry her, if that's what you're asking."

"Was it Pansy?"

"No. Pansy knows better than to get involved with my father – at least, since she was twelve. Besides, she's in love with me."

"Then why don't you just marry Pansy?"

"Because she'd kick my ass."

"I suppose it all worked out for the best, then," she said, but it felt funny saying that, because – hell, _she_ didn't believe it. This little bastard sitting beside her looked _miserable_.

"That seems to be," he said. "But that's how it always is. Something shitty happens, and then you find out in the end it was all part of your… emotional education. Or just an obstacle to the fiery pits of hell."

Hermione shook her head. "I highly doubt that."

"Oh, right. Forgive me. I seemed to have forgotten that I'm talking to Hermione Granger, world-renowned author and know-it-all."

"Shut it, Malfoy," she said to him, though the coldness of her voice had long distilled. She could tell she was really drunk by now. Her head was spinninf a little. "I'm just trying to say that it didn't seem as if you loved her, from the way you spoke about it. It was easier for you."

"Ah," he said. "Of course. And you loved him like the flower loves the sun."

Hermione felt a little sick as he said that. "Stop it."

He sighed. "Granger, you're so pathetic. Get over him. Why don't you try shagging a stranger in a bar tonight? It'll help."

"Yeah, if getting a type of VD or herpes or chlamydia is considered help." Then she paused, looking at him. "Why didn't you love her?"

"Who?"

"Your… fiancé."

Draco wrinkled his nose, looking revolted. "_That_ whore?"

"Yeah."

"It's a self-preservation matter, Granger. Love isn't for Malfoys. It only ends up in failure. Believe it or not, generations of Malfoys have lived by that principle alone."

"Believable when I look at you," she snorted.

"Let me explain further," he said, scooting his chair closer to her. "Do you see what you're going through? Maybe you're coping with it, drinking bottles and bottles of whiskey for one night. But that's just for one night. Malfoys, if they were ever caught in such a tragedy and left with painful emotional baggage, would drink until they died. They were never taught to love. Sorry shit, I know, but it's true. And when loss comes from love, they were never taught how to cope with it like other people."

"And you think _I'm_ coping?" she snorted. And, just to prove her point, she finished her glass.

"Barely, but yeah. Better than us Malfoys could ever."

She shook her head. "That sounds like a line from a movie."

"Negative. I don't watch movies. I think they're pretentious."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh because he was such a snob, before she ordered another whiskey.

"Now, wait a second, Granger," he said, as she raised her glass to her lips. "Are you sure you want to do that? You're already drunk as it is."

"What are you? A cop?" she snapped.

"I'm only saying. Drinking impairs your judgment." He watched her as she set down her glass again. "Just to let you know," he informed her. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning."

"Ah," she said, a bit drunkenly. It was only now that the glasses of alcohol were noticeably hitting her. She was feeling lightheaded. "How true."

"Do Potter and Weasley know?"

"Do they know what?"

"About the Muggle. From the way you speak about him, it seems that he's still alive, and I know for certain that if Potter and Weasley knew, they'd have dug the bloke's grave for him."

Hermione smiled. "God, no," she replied. "Harry and Ron would've massacred his ass."

He scoffed. "Why spare him if he was whoring your friend?"

Hermione hesitated, slowly turning her neck towards him. She looked particularly troubled by this question, and she tried hard to think of an answer, an intelligent one, but then felt a gurgling in her stomach and a bile, sour liquid start to creep up her throat. Her eyes widened, putting a hand to her mouth, her body jerking forwards. Then, without paying any attention to Malfoy, she bolted from her seat, running towards the nearest door – which was the exit.

When Draco found her a few minutes later, she was ducked behind one of the fancy rosebushes to the side. He winced a little when he heard her retching, her tiny frame convulsing against the fairy lights. He slowly neared her, standing beside her crumpled form, before she finally looked up. He couldn't see her face very well, because the fairy lights had been disgusted at the sight of her throwing up, so they'd all scampered away to the other side, and the lights were entirely too dim outside. People said it was supposed to be romantic, but people were often mugged out here. And, well, he was sort of glad he couldn't see her that well. He didn't favor witnessing anybody throwing up.

He held out a towel and her coat to her.

She looked disoriented and a little weak as she just stared at him for a second before she took it, wiping her mouth with it. Then she took her coat, but she didn't put it on. They stood there for a while she breathed big breaths, while she called herself a fucking idiot and he told her that while she _was_ a fucking idiot because she didn't bother to listen to him, he'd seen a lot worse. And Hermione didn't bother to ask who, because she didn't want to hear about how sad his own life was anymore.

"I think it's sort of sad how you can't love," she then said, quietly, her head still feeling a little discombobulated. She didn't look at him as she said this. All she could think about was how she didn't want to go home today because it'd make her as sad as hell.

"Ah, and good thing I'm too much of a snob to get sad," he told her. "People have different definitions of happiness, Granger. Mine just doesn't involve depending on other people."

"You're lucky, then," she snorted. Then she dug in the pocket of her coat as they stood there, and Draco looked out at the dark road. He heard a jangling – but it wasn't keys – and no sooner did he find himself watching her pluck a mint out of a tin container and pop it into her mouth. And then before he could think anymore on what possibly intention she harbored, she'd taken a large step towards him and kissed him right on the mouth, deep and soulful, and when she pulled back he exhaled, the inside of his mouth tingling from her mint. He looked at her for a minute, just staring at her, like he was disturbed. Because, hell, he was. Hermione Granger must have been really drunk if she was going around kissing _him_. And hell, she'd just been _throwing u_p. You'd think that was the nastiest shit _ever_, but those magical mints really were quite the invention. Still, though. You'd think just knowing the fact that she was throwing up would instantly gross him out, but he just looked at her.

He was such a fucking pervert.

Because then he realized that he really didn't have a problem with that. So when she kissed him again, he kissed her back, and before he knew it, they were kissing each other and things were getting particularly hot and heavy. There she was, in her pretty little black dress, pressing herself up against him, and she'd dropped her coat to the ground with a loud _clang_ from her tin container of mints. And she was kissing him so fucking _nice_, that he only had half of a mind to prevent himself from shagging her right on the cold concrete and Apparate them into his manor.

She didn't scream in surprise when they found themselves rolling around on his bed, her back arching against his silk sheets. After a few seconds of fumbling in the darkness, slipping off her dress straps and rolling it off of her body, he felt a burning inside his stomach – he knew it was so _wrong_, and Potter would absolutely _kill_ him when he found out, but Draco didn't _ever_ turn down free sex. Especially when he heard all of the guttural moans that vibrated from her throat, breathing them into the side of his neck, her nails clenching into his skin.

So he fucked her.

Easy as that.

ooooo

Hermione could not remember when they fell asleep, but when she woke up, she found herself on a bed, with Malfoy's skinny arms wrapped around her stark naked body, and, not to mention, a _baaad_ hammering in her head. She wiggled silently, trying not to wake him, as she looked to her side. He was holding her rather close, which she found disturbing. She always found that motion (after having sex) quite affectionate, and she was confused as nothing else. But then she shook it away, because she had to get the hell out of here, and why should she care, anyway?

She sighed, swallowing, feeling the pain in her head. She winced. It was like someone had just blasted a hole through her head. There was a warm throbbing in her head that only added to the intensity.

_Fuck_.

"Oh, God. This is that hangover Malfoy was talking about," she whispered to herself, her eyes squinting from the blinding pain. She also couldn't help but notice the soreness she felt between her legs. How many times had they done it last night? She was so hammered she couldn't even remember.

She just lay there for a while, wanting to shoot herself in the head because it was so _bad_. She was never drinking again. This part _sucked_.

Then, just as she had mustered enough energy to sit up, she heard a series of incoherent noises that was only incoherent because her head felt like it'd been bashed in. A sudden figure appeared in the corner of her eye, and a loud, shrill yell that made Hermione flinch in pain and grip her scalp, practically crying.

"Holy _shit_! What the _hell_?"

Through she squinted eyes she could see…

Oh, hell. Pansy.

The tall, gorgeous blond girl standing a few feet from the bed in which both Hermione and Draco were both buck-naked in. Hermione would have gasped and made a run for it if her head wasn't fucking _killing_ her.

Pansy's eyes narrowed at her, her face seizing in a menacing glower.

"_Granger_?"

Then, suddenly, Pansy stomped over to Malfoy, who was still asleep (and snoring), her purse in her hand. She leaned her face down close to his before standing up straight again, and Hermione heard loud whacking noises as she began to – no joke – _hit his face_ with her leather purse continuously.

"Wake up, you asshole!" she started to yell, and Draco was immediately awakened by the painful blows to his face. He made a loud grunting sound and then twisted all over his sheets, using his hands to protect himself.

"What the hell—"

"It's _Pansy_, you bastard! Don't you remember? We've got an AA meeting in fifteen minutes and you're still in bed with _Granger_ of all people – how did that even _happen_?"

She didn't stop hitting him with her purse until he sat up, and Hermione was watching them with furrowed brows, reaching for her bra on the floor with the sheet to her chest.

"Stop _hitting_ me!"

"Stop _fucking_ girls!"

Then, finally, Draco seized her bag, ripped it out of her clutches, and threw it all the way across the room. His face was red and he looked very angry.

"You were _drinking_ again last night, weren't you?" she huffed. "You were clean for a _month_—"

"I only drank a little—"

"What the hell is _she_ doing here?" Pansy screamed, pointing one manicured finger at Hermione.

"You're such a bitch, Pans," Draco groaned.

"I'm going to tell Potter."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh, no, please don't—"

Pansy's glare of daggers flickered over to her. "He's in our AA group. I'm going to tell him as soon as we get there. And Draco won't let me forget, will you, Draco?"

She suddenly remembered that Pansy was in love with Draco, and Hermione groaned in ill luck.

"Put on some clothes and get out," she snapped at Hermione. "How'd he get you in bed, anyway? He isn't _that_ good." And she had this look on her face expressing her ultimate bewilderment.

"Shut up," Draco snapped at her, and she flung his underwear in his face. "You, too. Put some clothes on. We've got a meeting in ten minutes. I'll be waiting outside." Then, with one last withering glare at Hermione, she stomped out of his room, her hips still swaying.

Hermione and Draco just sat there for a while, before they turned their heads to look at each other.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I've got some hangover serums in the kitchen. It'll help you."

"No, thanks," said Hermione, getting up and putting on her clothes. "I think you've helped enough."

"Hell, Granger. Don't be like that."

"One night stand, Malfoy," she said, putting on her dress. "We never talk after this, we never see each other after this. That's the whole point."

"Fine, if you want to be such a bitch about it."

After shooting him a glare from over her shoulder, she Apparated back to her flat.

Once she got home, she went straight to the loo and washed her face in a thorough attempt to somehow cleanse herself from last night's intimate and wild rendezvous.

She tried making the recommended cure for her killer hangover, but the taste was absolutely horrible and it was only on her third sip that she managed not to gag or throw it back up. And though she finished the whole dreaded glass, it didn't help the least bit.

She lay on her bed, her face distorted in pain, trying to calm her mind and frazzled nerves. She had tried some pain-relieving charms, but it seemed they didn't work on hangovers. And, the thing was, she didn't know any spells specifically for hangovers.

Of course, it was only seven o'clock in the morning, which was much too early for people to wake up during weekends. She could call up Ginny, Ron or Harry, but that option seemed very unattractive at the moment to her (Harry was at AA). They asked way too many questions and she really didn't feel like explaining _anything_ to anyone. So she just lay down on her bed, and somehow, some way, she fell asleep.

ooooo

Draco and Pansy had to walk to the AA building, because their so-called "teacher" told them that walking was good for them, even if it meant freezing their asses off. Since the manor was too far from the AA building, Pansy Apparated them to her flat building first and they walked from there. It was a couple of blocks, but Draco never liked walking around her area because he had slept with many of the girls he saw there, which Pansy had practically ripped his pretty little head off for when she'd found out. And he wasn't really talking to Pansy right now, because she'd abused him in his sleep just this morning.

"You're such an asshole," Pansy told him.

"You're a bitch."

"You're an asshole-bitch."

Draco glared begrudgingly at her. "You could've woken me up a little nicer, Pans, that's all I'm saying. You probably scared the hell out of Granger."

She scoffed. "You're lucky I didn't beat your face in."

"You kind of did."

"Yeah, well, it could have been worse." She exhaled, and Draco saw the white vapor that came out of her red lips. It was going to start snowing soon. "How the hell did she end up in your bed, anyway? What happened last night?" She looked at him, curious, yet he could see that it really bugged her.

"No," Draco told her passionately, his cheeks flushed from the cold. "I'm not telling you. You're probably going to grab your heel and stab it through my forehead."

"Hell no. These are my favorite shoes."

"You're so fucking abusive," he said, shivering in his coat.

Pansy only shrugged, checking her make-up in her compact mirror.

They finally got to the AA building fifteen minutes later, and the chairs were assembled into a small circle again. They were the last to arrive as Pansy put her coat on the hanger and put out her cigarette. Draco looked around and felt a little nauseous as he saw Potter there, talking to another person in their group. Pansy appeared beside him again, and she started laughing.

"Better hope your face is numb," she told him, before she made her way to the alcoholic hero. Draco followed after her.

Potter was surprised to see both Draco and Pansy in front of him because they all still hated each other, even though they were in the same AA group – that didn't change anything about rivalry and prejudice. Potter was the one who had had their parents locked up. There was _no_ getting fucking cozy with the boy who had gotten your parents locked away forever. So he just looked at them, curious, but also a little alarmed.

"Hey, Potter," Pansy said, smiling with her cherry lips. Her perfume was so strong that Draco was making a face. "Just wanted to let you know. Draco here fucked your best friend last night. Hermione Granger? Yeah, she was in his bed this morning when I came over."

Potter looked murderous as his eyes flickered over to Draco, who already had his eyes narrowed.

"Is this true?" Potter asked lowly.

Draco hesitated. "What can I say?" he said, lamely. "I love sex."

So, Harry pulled his fist back and punched Draco so hard in the face that Draco fell down to the floor, staring up at the ceiling and hearing all sorts of bizarre, muffled noises, before he blacked out.


End file.
